Drip, Drip, Drip
by ShenTian
Summary: Trailing him like a dog, is the stench of blood, dirt and death.


His hands were soiled with the crimson color of blood.

He remembered the first time his fingers curled tightly around the hilt of a blade. The dagger- his very first blade- was in a poor condition; it has unequal weight, some part of the hilt has been chipped off and disintegrated- the dagger is anything but good for cutting through flesh.

Yet, that imperfect dagger pierced through the neck of his only companion, ripping and slicing the flesh inside his companion's neck. It was a silent and swift death, not even a whimper of voice had the chance to escape the throath of his companion. The final gift from the Earth has been given to his companion through him-

Death.

A body lay lifeless on his hand instantly, and its soul has been sent to the comforts of the heaven- if such utopia exist beyond this mortal hell.

He dropped the body from his fingers that are painted with drops of blood into the dirty graveyard a gutter can offer.

That body that lied in the gutter marked his first victim. His first assassination, which is just a slit opening of the curtains of his life as an assassin.

His eyes showed no remorse to the grotesque sight in the gutter, no guilt, let alone fear for what he just did. His gaze is as sharp as a talon- which very much suited his name.

Droplets of blood fell from the dull metal of his first blade, staining the street of the slums with its bright color.

_Drip._

* * *

><p>Dirt was a constant companion to his boots.<p>

And also a companion to his targets that are bereft of life when their body lay on the ground.

The Noxian slums- the dirt and the waste of the country, sometimes find its ground to be stepped on by him quietly- only in a very rare occasion does one spots him lurking at the shadows. His tired but alert eyes pried on the youngsters lying helplessly on the street. Every single on of them are very skinny, their bones seemed like they can potrude out from its skin anytime. Their clothes are tattered, covered with grime, and in no means decent to wear, but he knows that its their only clothes. The slums is a far cry from the extravange of the wealthier families of Noxus- while the spoiled and imbecile child of a wealthy family complained about the lack of clothes while they already have clothes worth of three big wardrobes, the children at the slums are very thankful if they find even the smallest piece of food lying on the street or in the trashcan. He also knows that every day is a fight for survival; after all it is the unwritten rule of the slums- and the only rule:

**_Only the strong survives_**.

He knows it.

He knows it all, because he is once also the dirt of society. He clings and do whatever he can for survival- to live another day; even if it means a day full of stealing, running away, and sometimes, when he doesn't have any choice- he kills.

Only the strong survives. To kill or to be killed. To live or to die. That thoughts are what shaped him to the man is he today.

So why is he soundlessly putting a package of bread to the arms of the sleeping child with an empty stomach? Why does he give out a vial of potion to a sick child that trying to keep her fragile and weak body warm?

Why does he care? Assassins shouldn't care- they shouldn't show pity; they must not show the slightest of emotion, and emotions are dangerous and distracting things. Especially kindness- kindness is weakness. If he can survive the slums, why couldn't they? After all, its a battle and only the strongest will come out alive, right?

After countless of lifes taken away by his hands, he finally understands why;

Not everyone are strong.

Not everyone is as capable with a blade like him.

Not everyone have the guts- or even the heart to steal from another poor person.

Sometimes, there will be no victor in this endlessly fight for survival. But people- people who still has hope for a better tomorrow- will cling into the smallest speck of hope, even though all seems lost and naught. After all, who would expect a glimmer of hope to excist in the midst of a community marred with death and poverty? He still remembers that in a very rare occassion, is target caught a glimpse of his assassinator- and they would, run, run, and run as fast as their feet could take them. He still remembers that the look of surprise, accussation, extreme fear and horror when his target looks back at him while he's chasing his target. Indeed, people would cling on to the smallest speck of hope until all is gone.

He has taken too much lifes, and he found that helping the children of the slums... consoling. The fact that he can help to sustain a life, not just taking it away with the tip of his blade, helps him to stay sane. Maybe, just maybe, he can repent his sins by helping those children. The emotion showed by the child he helped is completely new to him- joy and happiness. Everyday, he lays a corpse in the gutter, so happiness is a completely new thing to him. The smile of the child he helped is indeed consoling. It's not seldom he heard a child a called him a 'guardian angel' (oh, the irony). Sometimes, he copies the smile of the child for a second before he retreats to the shadow.

But alas, he knows that no matter what, his sins shall never faced salvation.

He has taken too many lifes. He knows he is not worthy of redemption.

No matter how much he washed his dagger, his cloak, his shirt, his body, or his face, he can still see the blood of the person he killed. Assassins show no remorse. Assassins show no guilt. He kills whoever needs to be killed. Yet their blood are still clinging to his mind like leeches, and the guilt, no matter how many times he told himself that he must show no penitence, weights his shoulder down. A trained assassin he may be, but he is still human. And human posses the dangerous power of emotion.

After returning to the Du Couteau estate from his assassination mission, he quickly washed himself. Then, he looks at the mirror. In the reflection showed a handsome but stoic man with his long black hair cascading down to his shoulders.

But all he can see is a man that has killed and delivered the body to the gutter. A man worthy of execution. A_ murderer._

Even though the water that runs down from his hair, to his face, and to his feet cleans all the blood and grime from his body, he can still picture the blood and dirt staining his body.

_Drip, drip._

Woot! My first League of Legends fanfiction! This is actually supposed to be a one shot, but I figure that if I add the third part, it'll be way too long for a one-shot. I find Talon really interesting (both lore and game play), and it's currently a rainy season here in Indonesia, so rain+Talon=idea for this FF! The part about 'dirt' is showing his softer side, because I'm not convinced that assassins are 100% no emotion nor kindness in the inside. I'm also basing the 'dirt' part on some of asktalon on tumblr's headcanon.

So yeah, thanks for taking your time to read this FF! Reviews/criticsms to improve my English and writing skills are always welcomed!

Btw, cover image is found in (title of picture if knife blood)


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